


Protégé

by penguistifical



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: I'll put the rest of the characters in as they appear, I'm done having power I want to write soft things again, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, such as this has a "plot", this has some LonelyEyes and Jonmartin and wtgfs but it's not going to be central to plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:27:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26096329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penguistifical/pseuds/penguistifical
Summary: "The Lonely will give to you, but you’ll need to give first. And you can only offer yourself so many times.”Martin raises his head, steadily meeting Peter’s icy gaze. “Well, the Lonely’s going to have to get used to me regifting myself, isn’t it.” He digs his nails into his hand until he’s able to speak calmly, before saying, “You know, I’ve heard something like that before, and I don’t think the person was telling me to murder.”Peter shrugs. “Well, I wouldn’t be surprised if they were. It’s the Institute, after all.”four moments between older and newer avatars: 1. eye  2. lonely
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 13
Kudos: 67





	1. The Eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Now,” Elias says, swiftly cutting him off, again. “You’re going to get a few hours of rest. Clear your desk and head to the spare room. The bed should already be made up.”
> 
> “That’s Martin’s,” Jon says automatically, though Martin hasn’t been sleeping there, not for months.
> 
> “No, Jon,” Elias corrects, with damning gentleness. “It’s mine. Mine to offer, yours to accept.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: at the beginning of this, Jon feels trapped in a room with Peter  
> also a very brief mention of the beloved canon-typical worms
> 
> jumping around continuity a bit, starting here mid season 4 around ep 140

Jon promptly registers two things when Peter Lukas steps into his office.  
  
The first fact Jon realizes is that he’s in no kind of shape to go head to head with the avatar of the Lonely. Jon’s drained and exhausted, he’s conflicted with and by hunger from not feeding his Entity anything but himself. His recent attempt to part the fog of Forsaken to divine Peter’s plans has drained his already scant reserves. In comparison, Peter looks sleek and composed, a wolf that’s not only been helping itself to the nearby sheep, but been invited to sleep in the flock’s own comfortable barn.

The second thing Jon realizes is that Peter Lukas’s face is, for a considerable number of people, the last face they’d ever seen.

Jon waits for Peter to explain his presence, but the other man only looks him up and down with derision.

“Mister Lukas.” Jon eventually says, into the silence. “Can I help you?” he asks, putting as much _Go away_ into his tone as possible.

“Always glad to save time on introductions. You don’t really look like you could help anyone.” Peter replies, so pleasantly that the actual words take a moment to register before sinking in their teeth. Jon can’t help the reactive wave of guilt that washes over him. A flicker of a satisfied smile crosses Peter’s face before his expression resumes a false professional friendliness.

“I didn’t particularly care for your snooping, earlier.” Peter continues, taking one step closer, and then another. “Hurt, did it?” Jon presses back against his chair involuntarily. 

“So, Archivist,” Peter begins, and is immediately cut off by the bright and cheery tones of his cell phone. He rolls his eyes but answers and brings the phone to his ear.

Jon sits, puzzled and wary, as the figure in his office shifts from a terrifying avatar back to a mere man. Peter listens smugly to someone whose words Jon can’t quite make out, but who sounds exceedingly annoyed.

Peter eventually places the phone on Jon’s desk and turns on his heel to depart without any further knife-edged remarks.

Jon watches the Lonely’s avatar leave the office and doesn't move until he hears the door click closed. He listens, the fingers of his empty hand digging into his palm, for any noise that would indicate Peter’s still outside the door, listening in. An impatient hum from the phone brings him back to himself.

Jon doesn’t leave off staring at the door, but does raise the phone to his ear. “Hello?”  
  
He mostly suspects, but even so, it’s still a bit of a surprise to hear Elias’s confident tones.

“Jon. We needed to speak. Going through Peter seemed like a good way to contact you, at the time. I asked him to bring over the cell phone, I didn’t think I needed to tell him to do so politely. He’s an insufferable brute sometimes, I’m so sorry for his ill behavior.”

“Aren’t you in prison? How did you ca-”

“I’m fine, thank you for asking. We don’t really have time for questions.” Elias cuts him off. “Now: we need to do something about the way you’ve been taking care of yourself.”

The former (current?) Head’s tone is slightly professional and more than slightly condescending in a way that has Jon bristling.  
  
“Don’t make it sound like it’s nothing.” Jon snaps. “I’ve been trying not to wrest statements from people passing by. I can’t just treat the world like it’s my buffet line.”

“Let me rephrase,” Elias says, matter of factly ignoring him. “You haven’t been taking care of yourself. I took the precaution of putting a bit of something in your desk as a safeguard. Have a look in your top right drawer, would you?”

Jon’s pretty sure that the only thing in that drawer are three paper clips, but he reaches inside and his fingers brush up against a folded document that’s been stowed at the very back.

“What is this?”

“What did I say about questions?” Elias says, but doesn’t sound at all displeased. “It’s a statement, what else? 

As Jon unfolds the paper, smoothing out some of the creases against his desk, he hears the click of a nearby tape-recorder whirring into life.

Jon does want to know whatever this person experienced, does want to taste the memory of their terror. Ghosting his fingers across the page is pleasant, but not enough: he wants to _read_. But he balks at how...set-up everything seems, at how little control he has when Elias is able to predict his every move.  
  
“Why are you doing this?” He asks instead, stalling for information, trying to make the most of getting to speak with Elias again in the event he might learn something, anything.

“Too transparent, Jon.” Elias replies immediately, and Jon grimaces. “Your curiosity would be better served elsewhere. And, again, I don’t have time to indulge your questions.” 

“Tell me why you called or I’ll put the statement back in the drawer and hang up.” Even as he finishes speaking, Jon’s shaking his head at himself. He should have said that he’d tear the statement in half, destroy it somehow, even if they both would have known it to be a lie.

Elias clicks his tongue in disgust. “Is it so hard to believe that I find it important that you be well? You appear to be the only person left who is interested in furthering the goals of this Institute, if speaking with Peter was anything to go on.”

“The goals of the Institute?” Jon hesitates. “You mean the Eye.”

“Yes, Archivist. I do mean the Eye.”

Jon is hit with a wave of dizziness as the word _Eye_ twists in Elias’s mouth, somehow becoming _I_ instead, both words at once, as Elias promises his devotion to Beholding but also entirely to himself.

“This is what comes of spending any time around Peter,” Elias muses, as Jon clutches the phone in one hand and his head in the other, waiting for the world to resettle. “Calling you was something of a gamble, and I’m beginning to feel like it was a poor one. You’ll feel so much better if you read the statement, I promise. Now, shall I hang up?”

“Stay,” blurts out Jon, not entirely sure why he does. He doesn’t trust Elias to have his best interests at heart, but Jon believes him that he’s called to help at least an Archivist, if not Jonathan Sims. And, there’s a surreal yet undeniable comfort in speaking with someone who seems like they know what’s going on in a world gone mad. Even if they won't explain things.

Jon thinks when he says “Statement begins,” that Elias mouths the words as well, but he can’t be sure.

It’s not a lengthy recount. The statement giver had been walking along a wooded hiking path just before dawn. They’d gone early to avoid others for the peace of the trail - not for a distaste of company, but for the meditative peace of being alone. And yet, as they walked, they began to feel an invisible scrutiny, the weight of a thousand eyes despite no one else being there.

Jon’s recitation is faltering, though he can’t help but to continue. Elias apparently has this statement memorized: when Jon’s voice trembles weaker, Elias quietly starts the next line with him, prompting him word by word.  
  
It’s a bland statement, the chicken soup of statements, Jon thinks with ill humor. If so, Elias is carefully spoon-feeding him, coaxing him to continue as if each sentence is a sip of broth.

Jon does feel better for speaking the statement into himself, despite himself. He sighs when he reaches the end of the tale, voice steady and strong, knowing he’ll now see this person in his dreams for as long as they both live. 

“You sound much less peaky,” Elias approves. 

“Why d-”

“Now,” Elias says, swiftly cutting him off, again. “You’re going to get a few hours of rest. Clear your desk and head to the spare room. The bed should already be made up.”

“That’s Martin’s,” Jon says automatically, though Martin hasn’t been sleeping there, not for months.

“No, Jon,” Elias corrects, with damning gentleness. “It’s mine. Mine to offer, yours to accept.”

There’s an expectant pause that Jon simply waits to drift by. Just as he’s in no condition to square off with Peter, he’s also not feeling up to verbal ripostes with Elias.

The moment passes and Elias sighs. “Well, if you’d prefer to rest somewhere else, my office is open. You’ll be left alone for as long as you’re in there.”

“We, ah.” Jon hesitates, but it’s not as if the word ‘secret’ has ever mattered to Elias. “I may have already broken into your office.”

Elias laughs softly. “I’m aware. Not quite the Pandora’s box you were expecting?”

“All the monsters are already out in the world,” Jon mutters while shuffling away a pile of papers, and is surprised when Elias laughs again. 

Jon feels a quick twinge upon seeing the common work area when he steps out of his office. All the small desks and tables have been pushed together. Basira, Daisy, and Melanie all work and plan together. He unconsciously grips the phone a bit tighter.

“Some inevitable changes, I suppose,” Elias comments. 

Jon tries not to glance at any files or written statements on the desks as he walks by, doing his best to give the trio any semblance of the privacy he’d promised. “Tell me about inevitability.” 

“I do feel that you’re still asking questions, Jon. Still: this Institute has recently exchanged hands, if not its heart. Consider how that might change the feel of this place, what it might mean.”

When Elias had been Head of the Institute, the place had felt like a repository for secret supplementals and paranoia. Jon had been convinced his entire archival team were plotting against him, lying about their motivations. Elias had, of course, been lying, or at least hadn't been admitting to being a murderer. Martin had, Jon thinks with an almost unbearable fondness, been lying about his resume. 

When Jane Prentiss had attacked, the Institute had felt literally corrupt, with worms chewing through and infiltrating, unraveling the security of the Institute to pieces. There had been a frenzy for cleanliness and carbon dioxide.

Now that Peter’s here, Jon feels...isolated. Some of that is bluntly done, what with how Peter seems to be keeping Martin away from everyone, but it also feels like people are withdrawing into themselves and lashing out to keep others further apart. It’s a good thing that Melanie and the others are trying to fight it off by working together, even if Jon feels on the outside of that circle.

“I see,” Jon says, slowly. “And if something of the Flesh were in charge?”

“Best not to think about it.”

Jon pushes the door of Elias’s personal office open, and freezes. He’s been in this space, of course, both before and after Elias had been arrested. It hadn’t looked like this.  
  
Elias’s office is surprisingly comfortable, bordering on opulent. The sense is more of stepping into a museum than a workroom, a feeling assisted by the portraits and photographs that line the walls, forming an uncomfortable ring of gazes. It had been impossible to be in Elias’s room without forever feeling eyes on the back of one’s head.

That’s not currently the case.

Every portrait and picture has been flipped to face the wall, leaving a room eerily strung with the blank backs of canvases and photographs.  
  
There are two security cameras on the ground that previously graced the doorway. The lens of each has been cleanly fractured; pushed in, Jon Knows, by a certain Lonely avatar’s thumb.

“Elias…” Jon begins, low and uncertain.  
  
“You’re all right, Jon, step in and close the door.” Elias tells him firmly. “As I said, I told Peter to stay away for a while, something that pleases him to do, I’m sure. Lie down, now.”

Jon does want to rest, but his body is already tensing up at the idea, even as he sits down and tries to get comfortable. Falling asleep feels like a literal fall, a terrifying plunge into a gallery of stale nightmares.

“I’ll stay on the phone until you fall asleep, Jon.” Elias says, and Jon hates the understanding in his voice.

Jon hovers a finger above the option to hang up. “We’re not alike.”

“Perhaps not, generally speaking. But, in the way that matters most, I’m afraid we most certainly are.” There’s a shuffling sound from the other end, as if Elias is lying down as well. “Who knows? We might have a few more things in common soon. A close Lonely acquaintance for each of us...the symmetry’s somewhat pleasing, I think.”

“Martin,” Jon whispers, pressing his face into the back of the couch so that he doesn’t have to choose between closing his eyes or seeing the shattered cameras.

“He’ll make his choices, as will you. Put the phone down next to your ear, it’ll fall onto your face if you fall asleep holding it.”

Jon rolls over and examines the phone screen for the first time. “Why are you even in Peter Lukas’s phone?” 

“Much duress and convincing to get him to list any contacts,” Elias says, sounding so aggrieved and human that Jon smiles for a moment. “Leave the phone on the desk, by the way, when you go. He’ll probably want that back.”

“Do you know that you’re in his phone as ‘Don’t Answer’ and the eyes emoji?”

The silence that follows is, Jon thinks, a rather good indicator that Elias hadn’t known that.

“...he really is an insufferable moron.” Elias mutters, to Jon’s delight. It’s so strange, to see the flashes of the men Jon thinks they could have been beneath their service to terrible gods. If, despite everything, Peter and Elias have managed to retain even some shreds of their humanity, Jon knows he’ll be able to keep so much more of his own.

The thought relaxes him, and he puts the phone down next to his ear with a sigh.

“That’s it, Jon. Feeling better?”

“Yes, now that I, ah, ate.”

Elias chuckles. “An imperfect metaphor, but not without its uses. I’d read you a bedtime story, but I think it’s redundant at this point. A few hours of dreamless sleep will set you back on your feet. The nightmares will remain for another time. They’ll be there for you to delight in, and watch, and watch again.” 

Jon sighs, sinking into Elias’s voice, eyelids fluttering shut.

“Rest for a while, Archivist, just rest.”

  
  


When he wakes several hours later, Jon has the presence of mind to go through Peter’s phone. There is only a single contact.

When Jon tries to call Elias, a cheerful mechanical voice states that the number isn’t in service.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one pair down, three to go
> 
> thank you everybody who leaves kudos and comments, you are all really great and I appreciate it a lot


	2. The Lonely

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The Lonely will give to you, but you’ll need to give first. And you can only offer yourself so many times.”  
> “Well, the Lonely’s just going to have to get used to me regifting myself, isn’t it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: canon typical warnings for the Lonely (anxiety, isolation, memory problems)
> 
> still somewhere midseason 4 with this one

Martin’s jolted out of an uncomfortable doze by the sharp sound of fingers snapping next to his ear.  
  
The sound’s accompanied by a terrifying moment of clarity as he realizes he has no idea where he is. It’s a bit hard to gauge the actual size of the place when it’s absolutely filled with fog. Some kind of deserted warehouse, or maybe an abandoned bookstore? There’s empty and dusty shelves stretching as far as he can see before him and behind him, as if he’s caught between two mirrors.

And then, emotion passes. Martin settles back into a dull slump.

Another fingersnap by his ear has him looking blearily upwards. It’s Peter, of course. Who else does he see these days?

“Far too much for a first venture, and far too soon, Martin.” Peter tells him cheerfully, beckoning him to stand up, laughing when Martin only flaps a hand languidly. “So much for the energy of the youth. I know you’re enjoying a nice nap on a soft floor, but you really shouldn’t do that for too long in here without getting used to it first.”

Martin glances down uncertainly at the ground, but it can’t really be seen through the fine carpeting of fog.

“It’s not as soft as it looks,” he mumbles.

“You? No, you’re quite prickly, I’ve found. Mind you, that’s a good thing.”

Martin starts to correct him, and then decides it’s not worth arguing over. Peter will purposefully misunderstand anything rather than have a conversation or offer any explanation.

“Too much, too soon, Martin. Come along, now.”

Peter remains at his side, tapping a foot, until Martin grumbles and pushes himself standing. There doesn’t seem to be any signage or direction in this endless maze of empty shelves, but Peter walks with purpose, waiting for Martin to follow.

He stumbles a little as they walk, unready for how numb his legs feel - how long had he been sitting? Peter promptly moves away so that Martin doesn’t fall into his side. He does, however, put out an arm to catch him, to Martin’s complete surprise. He’s noticed how Peter always seems to position himself a carefully gauged distance away from anyone. Martin’s touched at the gesture, and then annoyed that he should think anything from this man is touching.

“Easy now,” Peter says, with grating familiarity. “One more step.”  
  
Martin lowers his foot and suddenly finds himself back in his fogless office.

Peter shoos him into his chair and pushes over a steaming mug of...coffee.

“You don’t know anything about me,” Martin observes, eyeing the mug anyway. He’d obviously much rather have tea, but there’s something attractive about holding warmth right now.  
  
“Nothing at all.” Peter says pleasantly, nudging the coffee over. 

“Is it always so cold?” Martin asks, trying to sound matter of fact, and failing slightly to keep his voice steady.

“It? The Lonely, you mean.” Peter’s eyes sweep over him like searchlights, and Martin feels pinned. “Yes, it is.”

Martin means to push the coffee away from himself rather than get used to anything warm, but the moment he touches the mug he can’t help but wrap his hands around it, trying to banish the chill he feels.

“You probably won’t notice it, though, not like you did just now.” Peter continues. “And you won’t dislike it, eventually. It just takes some getting used to, is all.” He grins without mirth. “I’ve been in for days and not felt a thing.”

Martin frowns. “Is there a chance I’ll bump into you, when I’m in there?”

“You don’t need to sound so disappointed about the thought, I’m hurt.” Peter sounds quite pleased, actually, like Martin’s done something special. “You’ll get your own piece eventually. But, I mean, it’s not really a proper space, as space exists. Don’t think too much about it. All that matters is that it’s your place, and yours...alone. Mind you, though, Martin, not that the gesture wasn’t thoughtful, but you can’t keep pulling what you did today. The Lonely will give to you, but you’ll need to give first. And you can only offer yourself so many times.”  
  
Martin raises his head, steadily meeting Peter’s icy gaze. “Well, the Lonely’s going to have to get used to me regifting myself, isn’t it.” He digs his nails into his hand until he’s able to speak calmly, before saying, “You know, I’ve heard something like that before, and I don’t think the person was telling me to murder.”  
  
Peter shrugs. “Well, I wouldn’t be surprised if they were. It’s the Institute, after all.”

“He didn't belong to any Fear."

“Why should that matter?" Peter leans forward as if he's imparting something confidential, but does nothing to lower his voice. "Here’s a secret for you, Martin. The Entity’s are our terror, but the individual cruelty? That’s _human._ You’ve probably already realized, sharp as you are.”

“It wasn’t like that _._ ” Martin says sharply. “He was trying to help, he was telling me something kind. I won't believe that it's innately human to be monstrous." Sasha had run out to warn Tim, Tim had given himself at the Circus’s ritual to save everyone. Jon, Jon chooses every day to _try_.

“I don’t mean everyone,” Peter says indulgently. “I said the individual. It’s up to the particular person. I’m talking about those of us who are still capable of making choices. If Elias wasn’t serving the Eye, do you think he’d be a good person?”

“No.” Martin answers immediately, and Peter favors the alacrity with a wink.

“Then, do you think I would be?” Peter grins wryly at his own words. “How blasphemous. Still, would I be a good person, without the Lonely?”

“Well,” Martin hesitates, looking at a cold, cold smile. “You wouldn’t be sacrificing people, I know that.” Realization hits him like an icicle to the spine. “Wait, was that business before about ‘giving to the Lonely’ your way of saying that you’re so comfortable moving around people and talking to me and _teleporting_ because you’ve killed, you know, however many people it takes for that?”

“Mm.” Peter looks briefly upwards as if Martin has committed a tactless faux pas, something mildly embarrassing to be unaddressed and ignored. “Anyway, Martin. That’s myself and Elias. What about you? What kind of person would you be, without the Lonely? What’s left behind? Do you know who you are?”

It’s a hard question to answer, and so much worse for how calmly it was asked. A lot of Martin’s life has been what he isn’t, and not what he is. He feels his face start to crumple.

Peter doesn’t leave him to sit in the silence, deftly rescuing him from the question just as he had rescued him from the Lonely. Even if it’s mostly Peter’s fault he’d been in both situations in the first place.

“Well, not to worry. You aren’t without the Lonely, nobody’s taking that from you. And you will like things, I promise. All peaceful, all quiet. It’s nice to talk with somebody who also can appreciate a spot of silence.”

That doesn’t actually sound too bad, to sit quiet and alone, to not be bothered by anyone and to not be a bother…

“ _Martin_.” Peter says firmly. The room had been blurring out again, but Peter’s voice sends it back into sharpness. “We _are_ riding a low today, aren’t we?"

Martin watches, confused, as Peter shrugs out of the coat he seems to wear everywhere and steps over to the desk.

“Now,” Peter says crisply, and drapes the coat over Martin. “Stay here.”

The coat has no heat, it doesn’t feel at all as if it’s just come off a person, it does nothing to help Martin feel warmer. Still, it’s heavy, and the weight of it pressing him into his chair is surprisingly comfortable. He recovers from his surprise to see Peter casually moving papers around Martin’s desk with no consideration for what was stacked where.

“You know, I think if anybody were to have a regard for personal space, it might be you.” Martin says, a little too weary to actually be annoyed.

“I have a great regard for my personal space.” Peter says absently, continuing to hunt through the contents of Martin’s desk.

“I meant me.”

“I do have a great regard for you as well.”

“Oh.” Martin sinks into the coat, lets it press him into the chair, and watches Peter rummage.

“I really wouldn’t mind bumping into you once every four years or so.” Peter says thoughtfully, tossing aside statement notes. “It’s different when someone is...like-minded. And it’s not as if there’s any obligations or expectations between us. It’s really a bit of a shame that the circumstances are what they are.”

“You mean, with the Extinction?” Martin asks, puzzled.

There’s no answer, Peter’s apparently found what he’d been hunting for: Martin’s latest notebook for his poetry. It’d been somewhat strategically hidden under a stack of dead-end files.  
  
“What’s this?” 

“My poems.” Martin frowns. “You were looking for them. How did you know they were there?”

Peter, as expected, ignores the question. “Poems? Like Keats?”

“No, they’re mine. I wrote them.”

“That’ll be just the thing, then.” Peter says with a nod, and hands him his own poetry. “You sit here for a bit and reread, that’ll ground you.”

Martin takes his own notebook with something closer to a possessive grab. “Those aren’t for you. Don’t read my poems.”

“I wouldn’t, I have no interest. That’s far, far too personal a view into someone, in my book. Or, heh, in your book.”

Martin ignores both the joke and Peter appreciating his own wit. Peter’s quips aren’t funny, they never are, but the avatar’s never minded being his own audience of one.

“You won’t read poetry, but you know Keats?” Martin asks, setting the notebook down in front of him.

“He’s dead." Peter replies. "And, to be honest, no, not really. Elias is the one you want if you want to discuss poetry.”

Peter laughs openly at the disgust on Martin’s face.

“I refuse to believe you two talk about poetry.” Martin says flatly.

“Well, I won’t ask you to believe it.” Peter says, still chuckling. “We don’t.”

“You and Elias…” Martin hesitates, not sure what he wants to ask, not even sure that he actually wants to know.

Peter smiles honestly for once, enjoying his discomfort. “What about it? We’re a bit of a contradiction, what with me being of the Lonely?”

“I don’t know.” Martin admits, a touch helplessly. “Aren’t there rules, or something?”

“It’s important to have rules, important to have a hierarchy and a system. It’s equally important to be the captain.”

Martin decides that Peter has chosen not to be openly helpful any longer, and opens his notebook.  
  
It’s not luck that he should land on the page of one of his most earnest love poems - it’s where the book has been opened so many times before that it now reopens naturally to that page. Martin had been heartsick for a man that told him about emulsifiers, who snapped and huffed, who insisted he wasn’t worried while quietly trying to sneak extra pillows into the spare room that he’d also insisted Martin take.

Martin had poured his heart into the ink and words and he doesn’t know if it’s good, or even achieving mediocre, but it’s as true as he could make it and it’s entirely him. 

Peter clears his throat overly loudly and Martin glances up, startled. 

“I’ll pop back in in about an hour, probably.” Peter says, not asking. “Just to see how things are.”

“Are you actually going to announce yourself this time, or just fog into the room?”

Peter makes a show of considering. “We’ll have to see, won’t we?”

Martin looks to the un-drunk coffee sitting and cooling. “Do you want this? I don’t know how you take it, or if you even like coffee.”

Peter gives him an odd look, but reaches for the mug and blows out over it. It looks for a moment not as if his breath is parting the steam, but that he’s breathing out fog.

“I’ll be back in an hour.” Peter tells him. “I’ll knock.”

  
  


When Peter does knock, about an hour later, there is no answer, and so he quietly lets himself into the office. Martin is sleeping, head pillowed half on a sleeve of Peter’s jacket and half on his open poetry book. Peter gently tugs the notebook out from under him and closes it without a single glance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> martin's specific piece of the lonely where he'd feel especially alone...is the inverse of a place I imagine he took comfort in as a child: it's an empty and abandoned library. ; ;
> 
> also this may have come up in something before but I do like to think that avatars can tell if certain artifacts/objects have connections to their Entity. peter hasn't been snooping in martin's desk but could tell there was something (the poetry book) in there that Martin had been holding while Lonely.
> 
> two pairs down, two to go
> 
> thank you everybody who leaves kudos and comments, you are all really great and I appreciate it a lot


End file.
